‘Kumain ka na ba?’
‘吃了吗?’
‘Udah makan?’
‘Have you eaten yet?’
One of the deepest ways love is expressed in many Asian homes is not through “How are you?”
That one, every Westerner can casually throw around everywhere.
But in many Asian households, asking if you’ve eaten is probably the purest form of care there is. It’s the quiet check-in beneath the question. The way of asking if you are okay, safe, alive, surviving.
Growing up, I always lived in my inner world.
Coming home never really felt like there was space to fully share my feelings, thoughts, or struggles. I would trudge home exhausted, and my mom would always ask,
“Kumain ka na ba?”
Then after, what I ate.
And inside me, I remember silently craving something else.
A hug.
Warmth.
A “How was your day?”
Oh, if only I could eat my feelings and explain how they tasted, and whom I shared them with — perhaps that would have been closer to what I longed for back then.
But when you are young, living under your parents’ roof, you simply accept the love that is given to you and carry on.
Now in my late thirties, celebrating mommy’s birthday in heaven today, living under my own roof and providing for myself, life feels different.
I hop from meeting to meeting.
I come home close to midnight.
No one chases after me asking what time I’ll be home, if I’m safe, or if I’m okay.
And somewhere in between back-to-back work meetings, I found myself caught by surprise when a client casually asked me:
“Have you eaten lunch yet?”
And suddenly, I felt myself tearing up.
I’ve gotten so used to holding the fortress on my own, that when the spirit of my mother’s love arrives in another form, I become overwhelmed trying to receive it.
Such a simple phrase.
One I deeply missed without realizing it.
Not the “How are you?”
Not even someone asking how I feel.
Just someone looking out for me.
Someone wondering if I’ve eaten.
I guess the love we need shapeshifts through time and through different seasons of our lives.
We always think we want what exists on the other side.
But just because we were not loved the way we wanted to be, does not mean we were not loved.
And perhaps that is what growing older teaches us:
to recognize love, even when it arrives in unfamiliar languages.
What struck me most after that small encounter was this:
Later that evening, I attended my friend’s gathering called Table Stories: Makanologie. And somehow, almost magically, one of the topics raised by another woman at the table was:
“Udah makan?”
Just as the welcome sign at the entrance softly read:
“Welcome home.”
And suddenly it all made sense to me.
Home and familiarity intertwine in the smallest ways. Culture binds us together beyond blood, race, or language. In Asian culture, dining is deeply personal. Food becomes memory. Care becomes nourishment. A mother’s love becomes second servings, packed lunches, late-night fruit cuttings, and quiet questions asking if you’ve eaten yet.
This one’s for you, mom.
Happy birthday in heaven, mommy.
You are deeply missed.
And thank you for the love.
#SupersoulSunday Challenge: Feed Someone With Love
This week, ask someone sincerely:
“Have you eaten yet?”
And pause long enough to truly listen.
Maybe even share a meal together.
Cook for someone.
Bring snacks to a friend.
Check in on someone who has been carrying a lot quietly.
Because sometimes, love does not arrive in grand declarations.
Sometimes, it arrives softly —
through nourishment,
through presence,
through remembering someone needs care too.
And perhaps, in asking someone else if they’ve eaten…
we also remember to nourish ourselves.
✨ If this piece resonated, forward it to someone navigating their own grief right now, or embracing the love they need. Or write to me at [email protected] — let’s keep turning words into soulcuddles.
And if you’d like to stay for more soul letters on becoming, healing, grief, womanhood, culture, spirituality, and the messy beauty of being human, here’s an update:
After 126 Sundays of writing quietly through Buy Me a Coffee, perhaps it’s time these soul letters found a wider home too. I will be migrating to Substack, and the sign-ups here will be automatically transferred as well. Write you slowly, from the other side.
Week 22/52 | SupersoulSunday | Written while gracing through grief from Seseh, Bali, Indonesia | All original, all rights reserved.